


I Always Take the Long Way Home

by LadyGoat



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 13:08:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2813084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGoat/pseuds/LadyGoat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a lot of cold and ice between the ruins of Haven and the Inquisition camp.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Always Take the Long Way Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [IntrovertedWife](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IntrovertedWife/gifts).



> Well I stumbled in the darkness  
> Lost and alone  
> Though I said I'd go before us  
> And show the way back home  
> Is there a light up ahead  
> I can't hold onto very long  
> Forgive me pretty baby but I always take the long way home.  
> \--Tom Waits, "Long Way Home"

Cullen crouched to nurse the small fire at his feet, watching as the last of the Inquisition’s rear guard cleared the tree line.  Once he was sure no one else was coming he plucked a twig from the fire and touched it to the fuze of the signal flare in front of him.  It shot high into the sky, his eyes following its arc.  For what felt like an eternity he stood in the cold and dark, waiting, until finally there was an answer to his flare: a much larger projectile that slammed into the side of the mountain above Haven like the Maker’s fist.  Jaw clenching, he watched the mountainside begin to move.

Later that night the Qunari, the dwarf, and the Tevinter mage stumbled into camp, the sentries alerted by Iron Bull’s voice sometimes encouraging, sometimes abusing, as he chivvied his smaller companions along from his position breaking a path in front.  They brought with them a tale of dragonfire and the Herald caught in its path, lying limp on the snow as they looked down to see a malformed figure emerge from the haze.  Her last words had been to shout at them to go, and so they went.

There had been no sign of her since the trebuchet’s answer to the signal flare. Cullen found his tent, fell onto his bedroll without bothering to remove his armor, and lay staring up at the canvas roof.

***

Angharad swam toward consciousness cautiously, not sure she wanted to get there.  She was stiff and sore, her left shoulder on fire after being dangled from it and then thrown.  On the plus side, she was reasonably sure she wasn’t dead.  The surface under her was cold and hard and lumpy.  She didn’t think the elven gods condemned people to cold and lumpy places after death, not even if they’d been really awful.

She lay and breathed for a few minutes, until finally the discomfort of what felt like a rock in the small of her back outweighed the pleasantness of the fact that nothing was trying to kill her, then opened her eyes.  Wherever this was, it was covered in snow.  Dim light filtered in from somewhere, revealing the detritus of the avalanche she sincerely hoped had at least managed to scuff Corypheus’s dragon.  Other than that, there were no obvious clues to her location.  She sat up.

Sitting up had perhaps been premature, she decided when she was done retching.  But now she could see an archway, miraculously empty of snow or rocks, leading gods only knew where.  A glitter on the floor a few feet away revealed her daggers.  Her armor was mostly intact, her tools and supplies slightly battered but still useful.  It could have been worse.

Angharard staggered to her feet, carefully bent to reclaim her daggers, and sheathed them on her back.  All her body parts appeared to be in working order, although her left shoulder wouldn’t stand up to heavy use.  There was no point, she decided, in sitting here waiting to either freeze or starve or be dug out.  No one had any reason to assume she was alive and search for her, after all, even if Bull and Varric and Dorian had made it out.  Time to see if she could make it out herself.

***

There was little refuge or privacy in the crowded camp.  Cullen found himself taking shifts as a sentry himself, the heavy fur collar of his surcoat pulled up around his face as he stared back toward Haven.  He told himself he wasn’t watching for Angharad.  For the Herald.  There was no reason to think she’d lived through the final avalanche, his optimistic words to her in the Chantry notwithstanding.  Nothing moved on the slopes except for the occasional nug, and then the blizzard.

***

Once she got past the scatter from the avalanche, Angharad’s heart leapt to see the snow in the tunnel trampled down by the Inquisition’s feet.  On top of them all, walking behind the rear guard, were the prints of the Commander’s enormous, slightly pointy boots.  She told herself she was only relieved to know so many of the Inquisition lived, and not giddy because of those specific prints, walking balanced and true with not a trace of a limp.  Atop them were the tracks of the three who had been with her at the last, definitely showing signs of limping but still upright and moving.  She slumped against a wall, overcome for a moment.  Her people were safe.

Ahead, though, the tunnel stretched on.   And on.  And on.  And on.  Following the footsteps of the Inquisition’s people, she followed it through the rock.  Finally forced to take a rest, she couldn’t help but be slightly irritated by the length of the rough rock tunnel.  Obviously her hopes for a swift, happy reunion and a hot meal were dashed.  But ahead, was that fire?

The light came from two torches, one mounted on either side of another archway.  Wind whistled down it, catching her in occasional freezing gusts and making the torches flare.  As she watched, one gave up and guttered out.  Determined not to let it be an omen, Angharad limped forward into the new tunnel, which at least was civilized hewn rock.

It let out on a white, frozen hell.  The wind she stumbled into slapped the breath from her, fine snow stinging her skin and making her squint.  Ahead, a cart somehow managed to still be on fire, but the tracks she’d been following had been erased.  She studied the horizon intently.  Going into the storm without a destination in mind would be suicide.  Going into it WITH a destination in mind might be suicide anyway.

The wind died for the merest moment, swirling snow clearing.  In the distance was a notch in the mountains lit by a warm orange glow.  She thought she could make it.  She’d freeze to death if she couldn’t.

***

Cullen stared out at the blizzard from the shelter the sentries had built.  Survival out there was unlikely without some kind of protection.  Footsteps behind him made him tense, carefully blanking his face before he turned.  It was Cassandra, carrying a bowl of stew in one hand and a mug of tea in the other.

“You’ve been here most of the night, Commander,” she said pointedly. “If you will not go to bed, you must at least eat something.  Either she will return or she will not.”

“I’m not—“ Cullen stopped, rubbing the back of his neck.  “All right.  Maybe I am watching for her.  Someone should.  Thank you for the food and the tea.”

Cassandra’s eyes glinted, her mouth almost smiled. “Oh, the tea is not for you.  It is for me, while I also keep watch.  As you said, someone should.”

***

Angharad’s whole world had been reduced to stumbling forward, stopping each time the wind broke to check that she was still headed toward the warm, glowing gap in the mountains.  At this point she didn’t care if it was the entirety of the rebel mage army hunting her through the snow for Corypheus.  She would die happy if only they would let her get warm first.  A row of pine trees had provided her momentary shelter and a sign that the Inquisition had passed this way, but they were long gone behind her.  She didn’t think she could find them again even if she’d been inclined to go back instead of forward.  Better to die going forward if she wasn’t going to make it than die flailing in the cold white darkness for a stupid line of trees.

Between one step and the next, it seemed, the wind disappeared.  She staggered, used to leaning into it, and then despaired.  Suddenly visible before her was a long upward slope, rocks poking through the blanket of pristine snow on it.  Her shaking legs momentarily disobeyed her order to keep going, and her first step onto the slope resulted in a fall to her knees.

She would not end like this.  Not because of something so mundane as geography.  Dalish hunters were meant to go heroically, fighting off a bear or a dragon or something.  With their teeth.  Not because their stupid treacherous frozen legs wouldn’t get them up a stupid treacherous frozen slope.  Gritting her teeth, Angharad hauled herself to her feet, bent forward, and began crawling up the slope using her right hand for balance.  Her left arm was tucked carefully into her coat to avoid jarring her injured shoulder as much as possible.  She would not end like this.

Eventually, she had to use her left hand as well.  The mark flared erratically on it, lighting the snow around her and almost distracting her from the amount of pain using her left shoulder caused.  But she made it to the top, and was greeted by a fire circle.  Embers lurked amid the ashes and she couldn’t help a hopeful cry of astonishment escaping her lips.  It was enough to let her stumble forward a few more steps before her body finally betrayed her.

Sinking to her knees in the snow, she let go of her pride.  She’d come this far.  She could see fires ahead of her at the bottom of the valley, she’d almost made it.  After fighting off a horde of angry mages and bringing down a mountain on a corrupted magister and his pet archdemon, no one could say she hadn’t done enough.  She sank to her knees, staring stupidly down at the fires.  Perhaps if she just let herself fall forward, she might roll down the slope and into whatever camp that was.  She’d try it in a moment.  She just needed to rest.

Voices penetrated her awareness.  No, not voices, one voice.  Cullen’s voice yelling, “It’s her!”  It was nice of her mind to give her that particular voice before she left.  She hoped someone would find her body, bury her and plant a tree over her.  She’d meant to ask Solas to see to it, that she be buried in the Dalish fashion instead of burned in some heathen Andrastian ritual.

“Maker’s breath, she’s so cold.  Cassandra, take her weapons.”

Why did Cullen sound so worried?  He shouldn’t sound worried.  She would be fine, she just needed to rest here in the darkness behind her eyelids.  She felt the comforting weight of her daggers disappear from her back and wanted to be upset about it, but couldn’t manage.  Then heavy warmth enveloped her, thick coarse fur nestling up against her face and ears.  It smelled of woodsmoke, leather, metal polish, a light touch of human sweat.  It smelled like Cullen.  It smelled like safety.

“I’ll get her.  You get down to the healers’ tent, tell them we’re coming. “

Strong arms slid under her knees, behind her shoulders, and she was lifted and cradled against an armor-clad chest.  Someone else’s hands pulled whatever she was wrapped in tighter around her, and then there was a sensation of movement.  It occurred to Angharad she might not be dying now, after all.  She struggled to open her eyes, saw the Commander’s worried face above her from where her head rested on his shoulder.  He was always so very serious, so worried.  She wanted to reach up, stroke the lines from his forehead, but her arms were wrapped in…his surcoat, she finally realized.  The one with the ridiculous bearskin collar.  She was grateful for it now, resolved never to snicker at it behind his back again.

He glanced down, saw her looking at him.  She tried a smile, found she could manage it.  “It’s all right,” she rasped, her throat dry. “I’m safe now.”  He blinked back wetness from his eyes, definitely the result of the cold and snow and wind and nothing else, and looked away as her eyes drifted shut again.


End file.
